Yesterdays | Slaxl ❦

T W O

"Let me carry through the rest of my misdirected life, the remembrance that I opened my heart to you, last of all the world; and that there was something left in me at this time which you could deplore and pity."

As much as Axl stares at the book, each of his thoughts finding themselves within the words of Sydney Carton, he realizes that he's devoted himself to a love which only crumbled into oblivion. He closes the book, fingertips grazing along the cover before he closes his eyes, hearing the chanting of fans from afar as they exit the venue, and hearing the compliments and hyped celebration of his bandmates as they tread back into their dressing rooms. But Axl doesn't attempt to find his bandmates or greet any fans. and he doesn't attempt to acknowledge whoever had cracked open his door, knocking the frame lightly.

"I'm not celebrating for this tour," he whispered, the lasting thought of the strange yet formidable mindset Charles Dickens had roaming to the back of his head as he stared intently at his hands.

"You never used to celebrate anyways."

Axl's head snaps up, the sharp pain flaring through his neck not daring to obstruct his inert state of shock. He processes the words, and he processes the face, and he processes the voice that never seemed to grow lower or rasped through time. When he peers back into the doorway, Slash is leaned against the frame he had knocked so coyly. His sunglasses are off, hanging from the collar of his shirt and exposing the wrinkles around his eyes. His hair is dripping with sweat, oleaginous and tied back into a thick ponytail, and instead of his signature top hat, he wore a baseball cap backwards.

He looks at Axl blankly, and the singer discreetly looks over his shoulder and into the hallway for any signs of the guitarist's girlfriend.

At least he believed it was done discreetly.

"It's only me and you, the others are heading back to the hotel," Slash murmurs, closing the door behind him as he steps into the dressing room. "Always so skeptical, aren't you?"

Axl continues to stare, processing the fact that this celestial being had unsheathed himself of his formal persona and presented his authenticity before the singer. He watches as Slash nears him, each step in tune with the beat of his own heart. When he's up close, Axl could see the cuspate grey hairs along his chin and as his gaze stoops only a bit, the sight of a neck tattoo nearly throws him for a loop.

"It's the same as hers," he grouses, eyes narrowing in unadulterated disgust, or perhaps it was jealousy that tainted his once lackadaisical demeanor— the one he had worked so hard to acquire when all he wanted to do was show how much he cared for Slash, how much he still cares. He glowers at the guitarist, watching as he sits beside him on the couch with that mundane expression on his face. "You never got a matching tattoo with me."

"You sound like a brat."

"You look like a brat!"

"What?" Slash leans back a bit, brows furrowed.

Axl huffs, chewing his lip and looking down at his feet. His boots are scuffed, dull brown polish stained with dirt no longer reflecting the sadness within his eyes each time he peers at them. Instead, all he sees is a shattered memory of what was once alive, perchance an exact replica of what he shared with Slash; something that once was, but never could be again. And as much as he hopes it's a fallacy, some twisted thought daring to conflict all the pride he had stored within him, Axl can see it being so true. He can see Slash slipping away from him over and over, and in spite of how close they are physically, Axl truly believes they've never been more isolated.

Slash releases a soft breath after a terse moment, and Axl waits for him to walk out. He waits to see the recognition as to why he had strayed from the singer in the first place flash across Slash's face, and he waits to feel that desolation once again.